Authors: Karin Salvalaggio
The yellow jumpsuit is a men’s large. They’ve bunched it up at the ankles and wrists and secured it with duct tape. The ventilation mask she wears covers most of her face. All she can smell is garlic and onions. She pulls it off and asks when the filter was last changed.
The man helping her suit up thinks for a moment. “Last Tuesday.”
“How come it smells like someone else’s face?”
His voice is weary. “Our team has done five raids since then.”
Water drips down from the charred rafters and in places Macy can see straight through to the slate-gray sky. A cold wind blows through the house. The kitchen counters are crowded with melted plastic bottles and rubber tubing. Everything is tumbled over and disorganized. An overturned dining chair is burned through to its metal frame. Ragged ends of blackened curtain fabric hang off the window frames. The damp floor beneath her feet is alive with syringes, blister packets of cold medicine, and plastic bottles. So far it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.
Warren sounds like he’s underwater when he speaks. “You can tell Brady was losing control.”
Macy picks up a small glass pipe. There’s residue caked inside the bulb. “Have you found any evidence that girls were being kept here?”
“Not yet, but given what Brady told Jared I’m sure we’ll find something eventually. This whole business makes me sick.” Warren stares out of what’s left of the kitchen’s back wall. Beyond the apple orchard the crystal peaks of the Whitefish Mountains are clearly visible. “I wish Brady’s wife would have come into the station to tell us what she knew instead of accusing him straight to his face.”
Macy finds it all too predictable. “I guess she wanted the drama.”
“Then she should have gone on a talk show like everyone else.”
Macy follows Warren through the rest of the house. An old television sits in a corner of the living room. From the looks of it someone took a boot to it long ago. The floor is covered in soggy newspaper and the sofa has been used as a bed. Warren warns her against going in the bathroom, saying that the suits they’re wearing have limits on what kind of protection they can provide.
“Anything in the cabinets that indicate there were females in the house?”
Warren shakes his head and they continue the tour.
There are two bedrooms. Damp cardboard boxes filled with flat-screen televisions and computers are stacked up to the ceiling.
Warren points out a shipping label. “No doubt everything was smuggled over the border from Canada. Seeing as Brady lost his license to drive trucks seven years ago and all this stuff is recent, he hasn’t been working alone.”
They pass through a dark corridor leading toward the front door and Warren yells at the officers to clear out the shelving units that line both sides.
He gives one of the units a good shake. “I’m pretty sure there’s a basement under the house. We just need to find the entrance.”
Macy heads for the door. The sense that she’s drowning grows stronger the longer she stays inside the house. “I’m going outside to get some fresh air,” she says, pulling off her mask.
Warren scowls at the camera crews parked along the road. “I hope you’re ready for your close-up.”
Macy locks her face in neutral and addresses the group of officers loitering outside the house, warning them not to talk to any reporters. Soon after, she slumps down in the front seat of her car and sips coffee from a thermos. Steam blows up around her face. Once upon a time someone dreamed of building a house on this small hill. From the car, Macy can see the charred rafters in the roof thrusting outward like snapped ribs. The trees in the front garden are overgrown, barren, and surrounded by rubbish. The rope that had once held a swing has long since snapped. The apple orchard is abandoned. The gnarled branches twist in on themselves like arthritic joints. The little house that was lifted straight from the pages of a children’s book is gone.
Macy takes in the façade, shifting her view as and when the police officers standing out front change their positions. Even though Colin is predicted to pull through, their faces are set along grim lines. The same cannot be said for Brady Monroe’s wife. Tina Monroe was pronounced dead at the scene. Macy would have liked to have a word with her but now that’s not going to happen.
A couple of officers start shoveling away the snow that has built up along the base of the façade. At first all Macy sees are tops of the window frames but eventually two basement windows are fully visible.
Instead of phoning, Warren sends an officer out to get her. She watches him run down the path. He slips when he hits the road and slides on his boots across the ice to her door. A cheer erupts from the camera crews. It’s the most exciting thing they’ve seen since Brady Monroe’s suicide. They turn their cameras on Macy as she heads back into the house.
The team has cleared the bookshelves from the hallway, revealing a padlocked entrance. Macy arrives just as it starts to snow. The flakes drift down through the open ceiling and fall on their bright yellow suits. She should be cold but her skin feels as if it’s on fire and her plastic goggles are steaming up. She puts a hand to the wall and steadies herself.
Someone comes up from behind with a pair of long-handled bolt cutters and they all back away to give him room. The door swings open easily. Beyond where the light catches the unfinished timber walls there is only darkness. Dust motes rise and catch in the beams of their flashlights.
Warren tells someone to run some lines so they can get some lights set up down in the basement. He looks up at Macy. “I would say, after you, but that doesn’t seem appropriate given the circumstances.”
Macy manages to smile but he doesn’t see it. “No,” she says, hanging back. “I’ll go last if that’s okay.”
The basement covers an area the size of the house. The unfinished ceilings are low and everyone aside from Macy has to stoop. The windows are boarded up from the inside with plywood sheeting. There is no fire damage but water from the hoses has leaked through the floorboards above. It drips on them like rain. Macy tiptoes through a puddle, being careful to avoid stepping on anything important. She counts several syringes, a glass pipe, and a couple of spoons.
An old wooden apple press lies overturned in the center of the room. She nudges it with her foot and the barrel rocks back and forth. A utility sink is tucked away in a corner and a small closet houses a toilet. There’s a bar of soap resting next to the sink’s faucet. It’s greasy and short strands of thick hair stick to the blackened foam. She pokes around a shallow cabinet with her gloved hands and finds an empty box of tampons and a hairbrush entangled with large amounts of hair. All around her flashbulbs are popping as the forensic team sets to work. They’ve taken off the plywood boards and strung power cables in from the road. Lights are being installed in all the corners. Macy turns around and finds Warren standing behind her with an evidence bag. She hands him the hairbrush. “This should be a regular cornucopia of DNA.”
Warren points out the row of mattresses sitting on the floor. “It looks like you were right. They may have kept the girls here. Given what Brady and his wife were saying I think we have to assume Leanne’s murder is somehow linked to all this.”
Macy doesn’t have the usual wave of euphoria she often feels when she’s made progress in a case. She feels nauseous. There are lengths of chain bolted to the walls. A rusty pair of handcuffs rests on the floor at her feet. She almost stumbles as she makes her way toward the stairs. “We need to let forensics get on with it. Let’s go talk outside.”
They sit in Macy’s car with the heat cranked to high. Now that she’s taken off the protective suit she’s freezing. Outside, it continues to snow. A termite control company has delivered a large tent that will enclose the entire house. Macy frowns when she sees a fireman take a chain saw to the charred tree that once held the rope swing. Minutes later it crashes over the fence and lands in the apple orchard.
Warren looks miserable. “I knew Brady’s uncle Phil. He and his wife Clementine were good people. They couldn’t have their own children so they fostered. Raised all kinds of kids in this house.”
Macy asks what happened to them.
“They passed away quite a few years ago. Clementine went first and Phil went second. As I recall, it was only a matter of weeks.” He points to the orchard. “I’ve eaten apples from those trees. I’ve had dinner in that house. They’d die all over again if they found out what was going on here.”
“It’s a beautiful spot. Maybe someone will put things right again.”
Warren grimaces as he clasps and unclasps his fist. “That’s a nice thought but I’m not sure I believe in happy endings anymore.”
Macy points to his hand. “How did you hurt your hand, Warren?”
Warren leans back against the door and inspects the bruising on his knuckles. “I lost my temper and punched a kid who was high on meth. He won’t remember, but I will.”
“I suppose it happens to all of us at some point.”
“No, it doesn’t happen to me.” He tilts his head toward the house. “The fact is I’m tired of seeing the same shit every day, and I don’t see how I make much of a difference anymore.”
“So what are you going to do? Polish off your Bible and go back to being a deacon?”
“Nah, I suspect that would require more faith in humankind than I can muster.”
Macy puts a hand on Warren’s forearm. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it back. Anything on Brady Monroe’s fingerprints?”
He swallows hard before he speaks. “They don’t match the partial we found out at Grace’s house.”
“I didn’t think they would. Brady Monroe was about to kill himself. Given that he told Jared about the girls, I think he would have confessed to Leanne’s murder when he had the chance.” She takes another sip of coffee. “I wonder how many girls came through here. The basement looks as if it has been shut off for some time.”
“Hard to say. Don’t like to think on it too much.”
“Whoever is behind this, they’re local. They didn’t waste their time getting over here. They’re tidying up loose ends.” Her phone rings and she looks at the caller ID. It’s Ray. She answers and then holds the phone against her chest. “Warren, I have to take this. We’ll talk later back at the station.”
Macy has to wait for Ray to stop laughing.
“I saw you on the news. Yellow suits you.”
Macy looks in the rearview mirror. There’s a bright red outline on her face where the mask pushed snug against her skin. “That’s enough, Ray. It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, come on, Macy. You’ve got to admit it’s kind of funny.”
Macy chooses not to engage. “I’m pretty certain they kept girls locked up in the basement of the house.”
Ray quits laughing. “How certain?”
“Fairly certain.” Macy tells them what they found so far, making a point of mentioning the handcuffs, the tampons, and the hairbrush. “I can’t imagine how much DNA they’ll find on that brush. It had a thicket of hair in it.”
“What do we know about Brady Monroe?”
Macy pulls out onto the road, waving to the officers standing on the front porch when she turns around in the driveway. “He shot himself with Gareth Long’s gun so we know he was at the hospital last night. There was a black ski mask in his truck.”
“Any connection with Arnold Lamm?”
“Until seven years ago he was an employee. His prints don’t match the partial we found at Grace’s house but it’s clear that he hasn’t been working alone. Before he put a gun to his head Brady Monroe said that Leanne Adams was killed because of something she did. There was a sum of money involved but nothing specific. He also suggested that her killer liked to do things to young girls. He described him as a sick bastard.”
“You need to find out who Brady has been doing business with.”
“That goes without saying.” She bites her lip. “Any chance you might come up here?”
Ray sighs. “That would be tricky. If I come up, everyone in the state will be looking at what’s going on in Collier.”
“True enough, but I thought it might be good for you to see the house for yourself.”
There’s a slight hesitation before he answers. “I think I’ll just stick to updates over the phone for now. If things heat up, I’ll make the trip.”
Macy takes a left, heading south on Route 93. It’s not yet three and it’s already growing dark. She needs to get something to eat before heading over to Toby Larson’s used car dealership.
“Macy,” he says, softening his tone. “Are you okay?”
“You know me, Ray. I’m always fine.”
“Well, if you’re not, you sure put on one hell of an act.”
“I’m going to go now, Ray,” she says, hanging up before he has a chance to say anything else.
* * *
A billboard advertising Larson’s Used Cars hangs frozen in the air above Collier. At least twenty feet tall in his cowboy boots, a deeply tanned Toby Larson wears no more than the boots, a cowboy hat, a smile, and a carefully placed price tag. Macy can’t help but think that he looks cold. Toby steps outside to greet her and he still wears a cowboy hat and a smile, but is otherwise, thankfully, fully clothed.
He takes Macy’s hand and delivers a generous smile. “Hello, Ms. Greeley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Macy tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and lets him guide her into the showroom. Across from the cars on display a blond-haired woman sits at a desk behind a glass partition.
“Is that your wife, Pamela Larson?”
Pamela looks up from her desk and Toby gives her a wave. “Yes, that’s my Pamela.”
“I didn’t realize she worked here.”
“She doesn’t really work all that much. I think she just comes in to keep an eye on me.”
“It saves me having to track her down.”
His tan fades. “Why do you want to speak to Pamela?”
Macy gestures toward an office with his name on the door. “We should probably continue this conversation somewhere private.”
Toby’s office is decorated with brown leather chairs and dark wood paneling. A stag’s head and several fish mounted onto frames hang on the wall above his desk. The leather creaks when Macy sits down. Her feet are so swollen she’s tempted to ask Toby for something to prop them on.